


The Monkees Fanfic-WIP

by HelenC



Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 20:58:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18724873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenC/pseuds/HelenC





	The Monkees Fanfic-WIP

‘It’s just my luck,’ thought Peter as yet another sneeze disrupted rehearsals ‘to get ill just before what could be our big break.’ The Monkees had been noticed by a young, equally down on his luck producer and he’d invited them to Manhattan to take part in a new stage production.

And Peter didn’t know whether it was nerves or what but shortly after getting the call he’d come down with the mother of all colds. To say he felt rough would have been the understatement of the century as far as he was concerned but he was determined that he was not going to be the reason the Monkees lost out on hitting the big time, so he took as many cold remedies he could think of and soldiered on regardless, desperately trying not to let on to the others just how lousy he was feeling.

Among the others there was a strange mixture of excitement and apprehension in the Pad as, although it was tempting to think that this was It with stardom beckoning, there were too many uncertainties for comfort especially Mike who was rather worried that if this producer was just starting out too there was a good chance the show would be a flop. But this was far too good an opportunity to miss so they had been practicing practically non-stop for the past month.

The producer, McKinley Baker, had very kindly offered to let the Monkees stay at his hotel room in Manhattan and they’d got their Greyhound tickets so they were all set and just trying to hone their playing as much as they could before they left. That was until Peter started sneezing.

After the fifth interruption, the rest of the band decided that they’d better call it a day and focus on packing instead.

“Sorry guys” Peter mumbled through a tissue. Davy came up to him patted him comfortingly on the arm with a sympathetic smile “hey don’t worry Peter, you can’t help having a cold, it’s just rotten timing that’s all.” “Thanks Davy” Peter snuffled and did his best to smile back, then went off to finish packing his things for tomorrow.

He woke early the next morning feeling like death warmed up; his head was pounding his legs felt like they were made of lead and there was an uncomfortable tightness in his chest and he almost just rolled over and went back to sleep when he remembered they had a bus to catch. Despite the pain he got up and stumbled to bathroom with the glass of water he’d put on his bedside table the night before. He rooted through the cabinet over the sink until he found the painkillers and gulped two down. He stared at his reflection in the mirror blearily, he didn’t look great, in fact, he looked positively ill but he was determined not to cost him and his bandmates this chance to break into the big time. In any case, he knew just how strapped for cash they were, Mike had done everything to make sure there was food on table and the rent was paid, but even Peter could tell they desperately needed every gig they could get.

He splashed water on his face and tried to convince himself as much as the others that he wasn’t really as sick as he felt.

The bus ride went without a hitch, Micky being his usual goofy self, set about cracking jokes from the word go and soon had Davy falling about laughing even managing to elicit a few wry chuckles from Mike while Peter was having so much fun he was actually feeling a bit better. Then they started discussing what they would buy when they were rich and famous and by the time they got to the hotel they were so keyed up the bad news they were met with hit them like a bombshell.

McKinley’s backer hadn’t put up the money yet and he was being kicked out of his room for not paying his rent.

“What the hell are we going to do now” fumed Davy as Micky paced up and down agitatedly “We’ve got no digs, no job...” he looked to Mike, always the rock they all turned to in times of trouble.

“Well” he said, “Backer says his baker’s ...er Baker says his backer’s just late with the payment if we can just hold onto the room until he arrives the hotel boss will get his money and McKinley will be allowed to stay. We’ve just got hold the fort for a couple of hours, we can do that easy,” his words sounded light but couldn’t disguise the fact that the situation was still worryingly precarious.

“Could you?” asked McKinley looking just as worried; wringing his hands, he was aware that if his backer didn’t show up he was in dire straits himself.

“Sure we could” assured Micky “we’ve just got to work out how to stop Mr Weatherwax from kicking us out.”

There was a long silence as everyone tried to puzzle out a solution until at last Micky exclaimed, “I’ve got it, if one of us were really ill and couldn’t be moved then he couldn’t throw us out.”

“Aw that wouldn’t work, he’d just send for the house doctor and then the game would be up,” protested McKinley.

Micky shared a knowing smile with his bandmates “not if they were already being looked after by a doctor of their own.”

“Bu...” started McKinley but Davy, having got what Micky was on about, shushed him “don’t you worry about the room you go and find your backer, if he doesn’t turn up our stalling won’t make any difference.” McKinley could see it was better not to argue and, promising to be back as quick as he could, made a hasty exit down the fire escape ladder.

When he’d gone, the Monkees set about putting Micky’s plan into action. It was quickly decided that Peter would play the patient as they could use his cold to their advantage.

Peter himself however didn’t think much of this idea. The come down from the sudden disappointment after all the excitement on the ride there had left him feeling even worse than he had that morning and he was afraid that if he let his guard down he wouldn’t be able to fight it anymore and then it wouldn’t matter if they got the money or not.

However, unable to voice his concerns without revealing the extent of his illness, he submitted to Mike and Davy painting large black and red spots all over his face, privately appreciating the irony, while Micky changed into a white coat and put a stethoscope round his neck. They always carried an extra suitcase with such props having learned on many adventures in the past just how useful they could prove.

They had just tucked Peter into bed when footsteps were heard to stop outside the door. Mike quickly went to intercept them as Micky made the last finishing touches to the tableau they’d created.

Now that he was comfortably ensconced in a nice and comfy bed and wasn’t allowed to get up Peter was finding it harder and harder to pretend everything was fine. The painkillers had obviously worn off as the pounding headache returned. He was even starting to wonder if it was just a simple cold, as the constriction around his chest seemed to be getting tighter causing mere breathing difficult. As Mike came back in bringing Mr Weatherwax and another man in his wake their faces swam in his vision and a great unnatural chill took over his body causing him to shiver. “’msorry guys” he mumbled, his voice sounding suddenly echoey and far away, traces of tears in his eyes. He should have been stronger, but he had failed and ruined it for everyone.

As predicted, the house doctor was sent for and despite only briefly examining him before being told some bull by Micky about medical ethics strangely, to the other Monkees, seemed genuinely convinced that his patient with crudely drawn on spots really was ill. Peter’s fitful tossing and turning in the bed and the curiously realistic groans and even half-conscious snatches of tunes they had been practicing the weeks before probably helped. ‘No need to ham it up that much Peter,’ Mike urged silently as he watched the performance before him.

Peter managed to catch Micky tell someone he was delirious before he slid completely into unconsciousness.

‘He must be a much better actor than we give him credit for,’ they thought, as Micky was able to usher their antagonists out the door and out of their hair for a little while at least.  
“Well done Peter” congratulated Micky when the unwelcome visitors were safely out of earshot.

“You had us worried for a bit there though, there was no need to overdo it,” grumbled Davy keeping one eye on the closed door. “What are we going to do now though? That little ruse is not going to put him off for long.” Micky, Mike and Davy retreated to the other room to plan their next strategy but Peter made no move to join them. After a while, they noticed they were missing a member of the band.

“Come on Peter, you’ve got the part, now we need your help to come up with a new idea” called Mike. There was no response, Mike rolled his eyes, afflicted with a cold or not Peter could be hard work at times.

In his delirious state Mike’s words filtered through his head, his friends needed him. He tried his hardest to get out of bed but in his confusion only succeeded in getting tangled up in the blanket they’d draped over him. Using the last of his energy he tumbled out of bed with a thump and a muffled cry then lay perfectly still without the strength to struggle anymore.

The rest of the Monkees all heard the thump and wondered with exasperation what trouble he’d got himself in this time. With a sigh, Mike turned to go to his rescue and abruptly stopped in the doorway staring at the empty bed and the misshapen mound of blanket next to it. Something was wrong; he could feel it. Quickly he went round to where Peter must have fallen. “Come on Peter there’s no time for mucking about; this is serious.” But as he untangled Peter from the blanket, he consciously appraised his friend’s condition; his face was an ashen grey, his skin cold and clammy. Peter really was very sick indeed.

“Micky! Help me get him back onto the bed!” Mike ordered. Micky, who’d been watching from the doorway, rushed to his aid, alarmed by the note of panic in the Texan’s normally calm voice. Davy was still rooted to the spot, his brow drawn in confusion. “He wasn’t acting, he actually _is_ really ill,” explained Mike.

“You must be jok...” Davy began before catching a warning look from Mike. No, this was no laughing matter. By this time, Mike and Micky had tucked Peter back into bed, the blanket drawn up to his chin. Mike gazed down at his stricken friend and, noticing how chills still wracked his body, snatched the wool hat off his own head and gently eased it over Peter’s right down to his ears.

“Mmmm...” moaned Peter with a drunken looking smile, “cosy.” ‘So he was semi conscious at least’ thought Mike. Good.

“Peter, can you hear me?”

“Mike?” The voice had sounded fuzzy to Peter’s ears, like a badly tuned radio.

“Yeah I’m here; we’re all here with you.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you were _so_ ill?” Davy asked but there was no need for an answer; they all knew why and none of them could honestly say they would have done any different.

“Never mind that,” said Mike reassuringly, taking charge again, “what matters now is getting you better.”

“But the show” exclaimed Peter suddenly, trying feebly to get out of bed but Mike put a gently restraining hand on his chest.

“Hush shhh, don’t you worry about that, you just rest. Rest,” he implored as Peter’s eyes slowly closed and he drifted into sleep.

Now that they were aware of it, the others wondered guiltily how his condition had managed to deteriorate so rapidly without them noticing. It was true that Peter had done his best to hide it but he looked so weak lying in the bed, his breathing coming with an audible wheeze that they were sure that if they hadn’t been so caught up with chasing the success they so hoped this venture would prove then what they had thought to be a simple cold would not have been able to lay up one of their number in a strange bed far from home.

The three of them retreated to the other room so as not to disturb him but left the door open. “Now what” whispered Davy “we can’t very well go on without him even if McKinley is able to rustle up the money for his project.”

“At the moment he can’t even do that” put in Micky. Regardless of the events that seemed to be conspiring against them, they all felt for McKinley. Suddenly Micky snapped his fingers “Hey! What if we found him another backer?” he exclaimed.

“And how exactly are we going to do that?” asked Davy sceptically.

“In big cities you can always find clubs where the people who have more money than sense hang out, it’s easy we just go and ask them.“

“Alright, then how are we going to get in, we barely have two cents to rub together,” Davy was still not convinced by this masterplan.

“We do what we always do,” replied Micky “we bluff it, it’s always worked in the past. We’ve got the costumes, it’s not like they’re going to ask for a bank balance is it.”

“Hey, there might be something in that” interjected Mike “and if we help him get this off the ground maybe he’ll think of us another time when we are back up to full strength.”

They glanced at the bed aware that this plan meant that they wouldn’t be here for their friend but it couldn’t be helped. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay behind and look after him,” assured Mike.

Buoyed up by this new plan despite their concern for Peter’s apparently grave condition, Micky and Davy dressed in the fanciest get up they could find in their props case and took McKinley’s exit to look for someone willing to finance a completely unknown production.

Once they’d gone, Mike sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. Worries were chasing each other through his head. How were they going to get home if Peter didn't recover soon? It wasn’t fair to impose on McKinley anymore than they had to but equally if Peter couldn’t be moved without making things worse Mike wasn’t prepared to risk it. Suppose he needed to go into hospital, they definitely didn’t have the money for that. But he also knew that whatever was needed to make Peter well again, they’d get and whatever problems they encountered, he had Micky and Davy to help him come up with a solution. No gig was more important than the members of the band itself and he knew that they’d all do exactly the same for him.

As if for the first time, Mike noticed the spots they’d painted on Peter’s face. Mike noted with a sad, wry smile that they were rather redundant now so, digging out a flannel from his suitcase he quickly rinsed it in the bathroom sink. Then as gently as he could he wiped at the paint until Peter’s face was a pale pink colour but completely free of spots. He didn’t worry about having to explain their sudden disappearance to Mr Weatherwax they had a better excuse this time, they were actually telling the truth.

A violent coughing fit brought Peter back to consciousness with a start, his lungs were on fire and he was sure with every agonised breath that the next would snap his ribs in two. A troupe of elephants were tap dancing on his skull and every joint screamed with pain. Someone was supporting him into a sitting position, rubbing his back soothingly until the fit passed. Through eyes blurred by tears, he managed to focus on Mike’s face, his expression a mixture of concern and sympathy.

“It hurts Michael, it really hurts,” he sobbed. Mike gathered him into his arms rocking him gently; he was thoroughly panicked now, Peter only ever called him Michael when he was really frightened.

He wished he could do something to stop the suffering his friend was going through but all he could do was comfort him as best he could and wait for the other two to return. ‘Although,’ he mused as Peter's sobs further worsened his breathing ‘if they don’t come back soon I will just have to get him to a hospital without them and find some way to let them know where we’ve gone.’ A rapidly shrinking part of him still hoped that Peter would make a sudden and miraculous recovery and hospitalisation wouldn’t be necessary but he could hardly ignore the tortured gasps Peter was making or the horrible blue tinge that was creeping around his mouth and fingers.

A rattling noise by the window that opened onto the fire escape made Mike look up but it was McKinley and he did not look happy.

“My backer backed down,” he said before clocking the scene in front of him. “Hey, what’s going on? It’s impressive acting I’ll grant you, but you don’t have to keep it up when Weatherwax isn’t here do you?”

One look at Mike’s distraught face told him all he needed to know. “He’s not acting is he?”

Mike shook his head “We didn’t know,” he was trying valiantly to hold it together. “We thought it was just a cold, it was all so sudden.”

“Shouldn’t he be in hospital?”

Hearing it voiced by someone else made up Mike’s mind ‘yes he should, we probably should have done it as soon as his condition deteriorated so dramatically’ but he couldn’t justify putting it off any longer.

He nodded sadly “would you go and ask Mr Weatherwax to send for an ambulance please?”

“Of course, but what should I tell him; I’m sure you won’t have convinced him that your friend’s _really_ ill?”

Mike gazed down at Peter’s body lying so frighteningly still on the bed. “It shouldn’t matter to him, if we’re at the hospital we’re no longer his problem, but if he asks tell him the truth, a man’s life could be at stake, and if he insists on coming to see for himself let him. Peter’s recovery is all that matters to me right now.”

McKinley placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder comfortingly and made for the door when a thought struck him “where are your other two friends?”

“They went to see if they could find you another backer,” replied Mike, not taking his eyes off Peter.

McKinley hadn’t the words to express his gratitude at these perfect strangers doing so much to try and help him so he just set off at a run to find the manager.

In an attempt to ease Peter’s breathing Mike repositioned himself at the head of the bed and propped his band mate up so that his head was resting against Mike’s chest.

Just then there was another rattle at the window and Micky as Davy climbed into the room and blanched to see their friend fighting for each breath.

Mike put a finger to his lips as they approached the bed. Davy reached out to take Peter’s hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. He could feel a faint, frighteningly rapid pulse through his fingers and shot Mike a look of pure alarm.

“I’ve asked McKinley to get Weatherwax to call us an ambulance,” he whispered.

The other two understood the financial implications of this as well as Mike did but voiced no objections.

“Were you successful?” asked Mike as if to take their minds off the desperate situation in front of them.

“Oh, yeah,” replied Micky, slightly startled by the sudden change of topic “we got McKinley a backer. He even gave us a cheque to give Weatherwax to cover the rent once we explained the situation. He seemed to think McKinley was going to make it big.”

“But he said he would only put up the money if the production included an all girl band rather than an all guy one,” put in Davy.

“Well that’s fine, since we can’t play anyway; in fact it may stop Peter from feeling too guilty when he gets better.” No one was about to voice the idea that he might not get better, they were like a kind of family; the loss of any member was unthinkable.

Then, abruptly, Peter stopped breathing and became quite still for a moment before convulsions racked his body, causing Mike to lower him quickly back down onto the pillows and step back from the bed. The other Monkees exchanged frantic expressions, at a loss as how to help him.

It was at that moment there was a harsh knock at the door and Mr Weatherwax barged in, a thunderous look on his face. “I don’t know what you’re playing at now but I’ve had more than enough of your antics if you’re not out in five minutes...”

“Never mind that! Get an ambulance, quick!” yelled Mike.

It was only then that the irate manager acknowledged what was happening and paled suddenly. He was not a cruel man and even he could tell that they weren’t putting it on this time so, without another word, he turned on his heel and rushed out to get help.

Davy went over to McKinley who was hovering by the door and pressed the cheque into his hands “That’s for the rent, we found you a backer,” he murmured. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have met under better circumstances.

“It’s alright; you’ve helped me an extraordinary amount even though you didn’t really know me. You couldn’t have anticipated this. And make sure that Peter doesn’t feel guilty in any way either; I know how cutthroat showbusiness can be, I just hope he recovers.”

Davy patted him on the shoulder and returned his attention to his band mate who had lapsed into stillness but whose breathing came in ragged gasps. Encouragingly sirens could be heard in the street below.

To Mike, Micky and Davy the next few minutes were a blur, as paramedics hurried into the room, briefly examined their patient and rushed him to hospital. There wasn’t room in the ambulance for all of them so it was quickly decided that Mike would ride with him as he’d been looking after him the longest.

Mike knew only too well that he was the cool-headed one, the one to sort out the others’ messes but even he had to admit his heart was in his mouth all the way to the hospital. He kept talking to him hoping that Peter could hear him, praying he was doing some good.

When they arrived, Mike kept pace with the gurney through the double doors and carried on going until a nurse took him gently by the elbow.

“Sir?”

Mike remained oblivious; all his attention was taken by his friend. The nurse tried again more firmly, “Sir, I’m sorry, you can’t go in there, you have to wait out here.”

Mike looked at her vacantly with such a look of loss that her expression softened. “I’m sure the doctors are doing all they can for your friend. Could you sign him in for me please?” Mike seemed to focus on her for the first time and took the clipboard and pencil from her but the worry and helplessness didn’t leave eyes that kept darting to the doors that had closed on his bandmate.

By the time Micky and Davy arrived, they found Mike wearing out a trench into the floor of the waiting room. They approached hesitantly, not sure if they wanted to hear the worst that they were imagining.

“Mike,” said Micky gently.

Mike startled at the sudden interruption of his frantic thoughts and turned to see his other friends looking at him with an expression half hopeful and half fearful. They wanted him to tell them everything was going to be ok again, as he always had before.

“They’ve taken him through there; they won’t let me see him.... I don’t...” His resolve to be strong for them finally crumbled completely and he all but collapsed sobbing into Micky’s arms.

Between them, Davy and Micky steered Mike onto a chair and just held him as he let go of all the stress he’d been desperately trying to keep bottled up over the last few hours. An anguished look passed between them that plainly said ‘we shouldn’t have left him alone.’ Mike did such a good job of being the strong, stoic one that it was easy to take him for granted and forget that he was only human. They also had to remember that he sometimes forgot that himself.

A doctor entered carrying a clipboard, looking solemn. “Are you with Mr Tork?”

“Yes!” cried Davy “How is he, is he alright? When can we see him?”

The doctor waited patiently for him to simmer down before continuing.

“He’s in surgery now; your friend has severe pneumonia. We’re doing all we can for him but I’m afraid it’s still very touch and go. Even if the surgery is successful he will have to stay in Intensive Care to give him the best chance of recovery. You may see him, for a very brief time, when he gets out of surgery. Does he have next of kin that need to be contacted?”

“Um...er... yeah, we’ll make sure they know,” managed Micky.

The doctor’s tone was not unkind, but the impersonal way in which he seemed to be discussing the life or death of one of their best friends was throwing them for a loop.

The doctor nodded curtly and left them to make the necessary calls.

Words like ‘surgery’, ‘Intensive Care’ and ‘touch and go’ whirled through the remaining Monkees’ heads. Peter’s recovery appeared in no way guaranteed and that was a terrifying thought.

“Mike? Could I have some of the change to make some phone calls, please?” asked Micky gently, conscious that his mental state may still be somewhat fragile but also aware that he personally kept a tight hold of what little spare change they had.

Still staring into the middle distance in shock, Mike dug into his pocket and produced what few coins there was left and silently handed them over.

By the time they were allowed to go through and see him, all three were alternately pacing up and down the floor and biting their fingernails to the bone. And, as they entered intensive care, their fears were not at all assuaged by the sight of their dear friend lying so still in a hospital bed covered in wires and tubes and surrounded by monitors.

Davy and Mike dropped into chairs on either side of the bed and took Peter’s hands in theirs as if they could transmit their health to him by touch, but he remained motionless, the only sounds the beeping of the machines and the rhythmic wheeze of his ventilated breathing.


End file.
